𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌
╰┈➤ pairing: Bob Gray/Pennywise x fem!reader ╰┈➤ word count: 4.1K ╰┈➤ summary: Reader – ah, the poor girl. Exasperated with her failing marriage, she agrees to spend a day at the circus with her friends to take her mind off the joke she calls a husband. She becomes immediately enamored with Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Fortunately for her, he's down to show her a good time after the show. ╰┈➤ w a r n i n g s: K | SMUT, female reader, no use of y/n, plot what plot?/porn without plot, coulrophilia, technically strangers to lovers, infidelity/cheating (reader cheats on her husband with Bob), p in v, doggy style, kissing, fingering, hook-ups, mentions of alcohol/alcoholism, circus setting!! ╰┈➤ a/n: lizzie returning to the circus aesthetic?? nobody is surprised. inspired by several anons; we all wanted Bob Gray apparently. started writing this before ep 7 and finished it after. this takes place in the 1900s!! also not beta read, and i'm horrible at ending my fics, don't look at me. PS: if you've never made out with a clown, you are missing out, I am telling you this from the bottom of my soul. banners by @/saradika-graphics and @/v6que!
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Frustration.
Oh, the downfall of every once-happy marriage, isn't it?
Frustration is like a virus. It starts with minor annoyances; little things that tweak your attitude just enough for you to feel it in your neck. You adjust your shoulders to try to placate it, but to no avail. The frustration grows into fights that ruin dinner or send your husband off drinking late in the night. Then, seemingly overnight, the frustration twists and turns itself into something nastier, something colder. Resentment — and then, the resentment grows into hatred, into despising every waking moment you have to spend with him.
And the sex. God, the sex. It's miserable. Short-lived, sure, but miserable all the same. Eventually, he wants it less and less. You resent that, too. It eats at your insecurities like termites in wood, and you suspect he's having an affair. Maybe multiple — you've certainly never trusted him.
You moved to Derry, Maine, for him, the ungrateful swine. You left your home and moved to the small town where he grew up, all because he wanted to marry you and start a family. Well, the joke was on you because he was shooting blanks, and a family wasn't in the cards. At least not with him. You're convinced that you'll be frustrated until the end of your days, living out a life that you despise.
That is, until the circus comes into town. The circus with its curious, inviting warmth and mysterious allure. The circus, with its promise of entertainment, bewilderment, and a reminder of what life can feel like — exciting. You see the posted flyers all over town, advertising the upcoming event, but don't entertain the idea right away. Your husband would never go, and besides that, you'd never ask him.
~
"Oh," you breathe hotly through your nose, setting your jaw. "I know exactly what you'll be doing when you're gone."
"Working," your husband retorts, clicking his suitcase shut.
"You think me a god damned fool, don't you?"
He straightens up, exhausted. Shakes his head. "Watch your mouth. I'm not doin' this with you. Not again."
"You're not doing anything with me, you can say that again."
"Give it a rest." He adds your name like a curse, like a filthy word, as though it pains him even to say it aloud. You stand, defeated and angry in your nightgown, the half-eaten breakfast roils in your stomach amidst the bile of the relationship.
When he finally leaves that morning, he slams the door a little harder than you expect. Hard enough that your teacup rattles in its saucer. You look down at the ripples in the tea and let out an angry huff.
Bastard.
~
"Oh, but he'd never let you go, would he?" Marguerite asks, waving a paper fan at herself as you three walk through the park the next day. It's springtime, but the heat of the sun beats down on all of you, warming the backs of your necks.
"Well," you say, smoothing your skirt down, brushing off a rogue piece of string. "He's out of town for a few days. Went to New York for a business trip, he said. Though I suspect he's off with that woman —"
Helen brightens up at this, and grips your hand at her side. "Oh, live a little, then! We'll go today!"
"Yes, let's! It'll do you good to forget him!"
It takes little more convincing than that.
When you arrive, everything seems light and in tones of yellow — even the off-white canvas circus tents seem to glow with the warmth of the spring day. The warm smell of popped corn wafts by you as you step into the field. Children run all around with bright red balloons trailing along behind them, kicking up clouds of dirt underneath their feet, and mothers lift their petticoats as they run, trying to keep up with their young ones. You step out of the way of a child, dodging a balloon as it zips past your head. With a content smile, you decide you'll get a box of popcorn and enjoy the rest of the day without a single thought given to your husband.
"Oh! There's a show starting — let's watch it!" Helen trills, grabbing your hand. You reach for Marguerite's wrist behind you, bringing her along as Helen tows you towards the tents. In the middle of those tents, an elaborately carved wooden stage has been set up. People are gathering in front of it, eagerly awaiting whatever is about to come out of the door.
"Ten cents to see the great Pennywise the dancing clown!"
The three of you pay the fee to the barker and weave your way through the crowd to a spot in the middle. It's a harmless show, or so you think. That is, until he comes out onto the stage. With an excited expression plastered on his painted face, he pokes his head out first, then has to duck out from the small green door to avoid hitting it. Children flock to the front, clapping excitedly. Their shrill, melodious laughter fills the area, drifting through the air as he mock-trips over his own feet. He stops at the front of the stage and waves a white-gloved hand excitedly at the crowd.
He's tall — easily one of the tallest men you've ever seen. His lanky, lithe body is covered by a silvery clown suit, with orange puff balls on the front of it. The only other splash of orange comes from his wig. His face is painted a bright white, with the tip of his nose a deep crimson color. His lips are the same shade, with two lines ascending from the corners of them up his cheeks and past his brow line. His mouth is open, bottom lip curved down slightly, revealing his teeth. Something stirs inside you at the sight of him — something that feels like longing, like something you've not had the pleasure of feeling since the early days of your marriage. But oh, with a clown? How strange. That wasn't the kind of forgetting you had in mind…
It's then that you two make eye contact. His gaze feels heavy, and pride swells in your chest like one of the balloons that the children carry. He tucks his feet together in a playful stance and bows his chin to his chest slightly. With one hand tucked behind his back, he wiggles the fingers of his other hand at you, almost shyly. A few people turn their heads to see who is getting the extra attention, bemused smiles on their faces. Feeling the weight of their gazes, you look to your friends on either side of you, then back to him. Surely, he couldn't mean you. When your gaze drifts back to his, he's still staring at you with big, wide eyes. He gives an exaggerated nod, the fluffy ruffled collar at his neck quivering with the action, as if to say, "Yes, you."
A familiar warmth spreads across your cheeks in an embarrassing wave. You roll your rouged lips inward, fighting the small smile that creeps across your face. After a few seconds, the ache in your cheeks becomes too much, and you can't hold it back. You bring one hand up to cover your girlish laughter while the other waves timidly at shoulder height. He seems pleased by this and does a little skip towards the middle of the stage to resume the rest of his show.
"Oh, I think you have an admirer…" Marguerite teases under a sharp, whispered breath. You shush her, far too enraptured by his playful performance to entertain such nonsense. Even if you did want it to be true.
~
That night, home alone, you dream of the strange clown at the circus. He's infatuated with you in ways that your husband never is. His long arms seem to wrap around you twice, and his kisses are as feverish and hungry. You dream of him doing things that you wouldn't dare say aloud — of licking your cunt and fucking you from behind.
The next morning, Marguerite arrives for her usual cup of tea and gossip session. Little things she's heard around Derry, and though you hardly participate, you put up with more than Helen does.
"Marguerite," you say quietly, in a lull in the conversation. "I've had the strangest dreams…"
"Oh?"
You bring the teacup to your lips, take a small sip, and set it back down in its matching saucer. "Yes." Your voice drops slightly, as if you're ashamed to speak it aloud. "About the clown."
Thin brows rise on her forehead — she's confused. "The clown? What clown?"
"Oh," you huff, embarrassed. "The one from the circus yesterday! The very one that waved at me from his stage!"
Her eyes widen slightly, both mystified and amused by your confession.
"What do you mean by strange?"
Keeping your gaze on her, you lower your head. "Strange."
"Well, that settles it."
You furrow your brow.
"You have to introduce yourself to him."
"Wha— I couldn't!"
"Certainly you can, and you will."
~
In the late evening, you two arrive again, sans Helen. The circus is as alive as it was yesterday, but the crowd is different. The liveliness of the children has long gone, leaving only the sulking degenerates and curious adults. The calliope player cranks out music that carries through the field in an eerie way, sounding stranger the longer you listen. The barker tries to drum up the last profits of the night, urging people to come watch the last show of the evening! Ten minutes! The stage where Pennywise performed is dark — at least for now. Neither of you pays any attention, because you both spot him heading quickly towards the caravans that are angled behind them. You take careful steps, but Marguerite is far more enthusiastic than you are; she tugs you along, not worried about arousing suspicion.
"Go on," she says, urging you towards the man's wagon. As you stumble forward slightly, she ducks behind one of the tents, with just her head poking out to see the scene unfold. You take one careful step up and rap your knuckles against the wood of the door and step back down onto the grass. You hear nothing for a few moments, but finally, the door creaks open. He's still in his clown costume as he ducks out of the door, looking almost too big for the wagon. His gaze sweeps left, then right, then down onto you. One hand is on the handle of the door, arm outstretched. The other hangs long at his side.
"Well, hello there, miss," he says low, in a particular tone that makes your insides churn with delight. He hadn't spoken during the show yesterday, and his speech pattern was so unique. There was something comforting about it, too, like he possessed real, genuine attentiveness — something that your husband lacked when speaking to you.
"You must forgive my… bothering you, I just wanted to… ehm." You stop speaking to clear your throat and stare at him. There's something so attractive about him, something that has your cunt clenching beneath your dress.
He shakes his head ever so gently, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. "Not a bother."
You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Your performance yesterday. It was…. wonderful."
"Thank you," he says. Gruffly. Almost like he's used to it.
You hum. He towers above you, and your stomach clenches, a pang of pleasure coursing through your body like electricity. "You're welcome."
Somewhere behind you, you know that Marguerite is cringing at your bumbling, gawky choice of words. Despite procuring a husband before her, you never did have the gift of gab that she did. You glance behind your shoulder and spot her, giving you a determined, urging head nod.
"Are you… do you remember me?"
"Yes," he says with a nod. "I do."
At least there was that. You decide then to be bold.
"May I come in?"
He seems taken aback by the request and looks inside his own wagon, as if to ascertain that he's actually alone. You have no idea if he is or not — perhaps he's married, and this is all a waste of time — but you're wringing your hands like a nervous child. He seems hesitant.
"I've another show in ten minutes," he says almost apologetically. "Last one of the evening."
You nod once, mentally fighting off tears. You also resist the urge to scowl over at Marguerite because this was all her idea. "I see. It was foolish for me to — I'm sorry I —"
His words cut you off. "Would you… like to meet me afterwards?"
You close your mouth and look up at him with big, wide eyes. Processing. After a few moments, you finally dip your chin shyly to your chest. "Yes. Yes, I'd like that very much."
He nods once, pleased. Then nods again, much slower, politer. With that, he ducks back into his wagon and shuts the door tightly behind him. You take that freedom to scurry over to Marguerite, covering the lower half of your face with your hands.
"Well!? What did he say!?"
"Shh, keep your voice down!"
She rolls her eyes. "Tell me."
"He has another show tonight, but he said to meet him afterwards."
She clasps her hands in front of her, excited.
"Well, let's watch the show again!"
~
This time, you hardly pay attention to the display. There are themes of humor, of love and loss, but your brain is frazzled, short-circuiting at the thought of what comes after. He doesn't make eye contact with you like he did yesterday, but there's an invisible string connecting the two of you anyway, woven tightly around your pale ribs. Every time he moves, it tugs on your ribcage, jerking your chest forward slightly. He's mesmerizing. He captivates the audience, even the older ones — but as the show draws to an end, the crowd dissipates rather quickly. Drunkards toddle off the grounds and down the road, wandering to their next destination. Couples stroll hand in hand away from the wonders of the circus. But not you.
You stay.
Marguerite swears she'll wait for you.
You take that comfort and tuck it away in your mind before walking away from the stage, meandering aimlessly. You weren't sure where to meet him; you'd failed in getting the specific location. You wring your hands like you had earlier, uncertain of what you were doing. The last thing you wanted was to run into someone and have to explain yourself.
What would you say? Oh, my husband is gone away, and I'm here to have an affair with a clown. Ridiculous. Absurd.
"Psst."
Your head snaps in the direction of the sound. Behind the tents, behind the stage, you see him. He's standing on the edge of the circus, just before the forest that surrounds it. You interlace your fingers in front of you to calm the shaking, and your lips curl into a soft smile as you make your way over. The grasses bend underneath your feet, and he straightens up as you approach.
The warm lights of the circus cast yellow shadows on him, but the moonlight above him washes him in her cool, pale hues. He's still in the clown suit and makeup, as he was before. Briefly, you wonder what he looks like without it all on. What he looks like.
"Well, hello again, pretty…" The lilt in his voice is so peculiar, so enchanting. You could listen to him talk all day, but quickly squash such adoring thoughts down because he's talking to you, saying something about how darling you are to have come and seen him.
His breath smells heavily of liquor — something strong. He's had more than a few gulps of whatever is in the silver flask at his feet. The cap is unscrewed, and it's tipped over — it looks empty. Perhaps he finished it off before you came, perhaps he was as nervous as you were. Because, deep within your guts, you both knew what you had come for.
He tastes like it, too, when he finally kisses you. He tugs on your jaw sloppily, pulling it to his mouth, and you can't help but wince at his desperation. Thick, white makeup smears across your mouth and over your cheeks, a waxy flavor amidst the booze. You press both hands on his chest, running your fingertips over the panels of his silvery clown suit. With his hips, he walks you back a few steps until your rear bumps against the fence. You vocalize, and his arms coil around you protectively. He deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue along yours until saliva collects in the corners of your mouths, wet and warm. The longer he kisses you, the more want and need gathers in the pit of your stomach, heavier the heat grows that pools between your legs.
"Show me," he murmurs as he breaks the kiss, turning you around. You know what he means, and you pliably allow him to manipulate your body. Gently but firmly, he urges you to hinge at the waist before gathering your dress up in his hands. He pulls your skirts up and your under garments down with lithe, quick fingers.
Reality hits you like a freight train; you were bent over a fence with your skirts pushed up around your hips, exposed to a near stranger, and ready to risk it all. He runs a long finger down the length of your slit, pulling a convulsive shiver from your core and wiping your slate clean of any nagging thoughts. Fear and shame roil in your stomach like a bad meal as you hear fabric rustling behind you, as he undoes his trousers. What were you doing?
He asks: "Have you ever been with a man like me?"
Thoughts of your husband plague your mind, threatening to ruin the moment. How he fucked you. How it felt to roll over in your warm bed, completely unsatisfied and disgusted. You shake your head. "Like Pennywise the Dancing Clown? No…"
You hear him laugh through his nose at that, before feeling his flattened hands glide over the warm softness of your exposed back. They smear over the curve of your ass before dropping down. Gently, slowly, he slips one lengthy middle digit inside. You gasp at the welcome intrusion, mostly out of genuine shock. You'd never been pleasured in this way, never in a way that didn't feel like a chore. It seems that your slickness eggs the clown behind you on, because he withdraws slightly, just enough to slip another finger in. They press against you as they sink inside, finding that spot deep within you that makes your legs quiver, and your eyes roll up into your head. Your toes curl within your boots. "My god," you whisper. Electric pleasure courses through your body as he finger fucks you at the edge of the forest.
You no longer cared what you were doing. A mind that was once filled with guilt is now buzzing with arousal, wiped clean of any other thought besides him. After a few tantalizing moments, he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, sliding them against his teeth. You hear the wet sound of him sucking your essence off, and your cheeks and neck grow unimaginably hot at the obscenity of the situation.
He wastes no time then; thumbs spread your hot, glistening cunt apart, and you shiver pitifully again as the cool night air licks at her from behind. He holds her open wordlessly before easing the hot, squishy head of his cock inside. Pressure blooms in your core like a flower as he slides himself into your clenching walls, and you arch your back, gripping the fence underneath your chest. His lower abdomen presses against your ass, making your jaw drop. He's buried inside you, and you feel a twitch deep within. For a moment, he stays there, reveling in the feeling.
A grunt. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
You nod, breathlessly.
He begins to rut against the plushness of your ass, fucking his cock into you in steady, deep thrusts. They're hard enough, though, that your eyes lose focus and the forest in front of you goes blurry, that the trees begin to rock and tilt in ways you know are wrong. He holds your hips, his fingers stretching around to the front of them, and uses them as leverage for his thrusts, pulling and pushing you back and forth on himself. He's very vocal, grunting and groaning with each bullying thrust. The tip of his cock hits you hard, and you moan through tightened lips, not wanting to alert anyone around you to what you're doing. As though the hollow slop slop slop of his body against your ass isn't loud enough.
He stops suddenly, pulling his hips back. He grips you at the waist and pulls you around to face him. His red lips are smeared from the kiss, and the white is, too, revealing the skin underneath. You can only imagine what you look like right now. To him, though, it seems, you look like a divine picture come undone — something to savor and fuel his lewd hunger for you. His slightly sunken gaze drifts heavily from your crimson-smeared mouth to your eyes before he kisses you again.
Keeping your mouth locked on his with one hand behind your neck, he moves the other down between your bodies. Hastily pulling your dress back up, and taking his leaking cock in his hand, guiding it instinctively to your entrance. You aid him in this position by pushing yourself up against the fence, giving him some extra room to move.
"That's a good girl…" He coils an arm around your waist, pulling you tight to his body. You feel the warmth, the sex, that radiates from him.
He bucks his hips forward into you over and over again until your cunt throbs with the feeling. Tightness curls in your core, a feeling that usually isn't there. The rocking motion shifts his wig backwards, revealing a high, round forehead. You only catch a glimpse of it before he reaches up to adjust it, pulling it back down quickly. Too fucked out to reassure him of any insecurities or tell him otherwise, you grip his shoulders hard and drop your head forward onto the place between his shoulder and his neck. The greasepaint on his neck, beaded with sweat, sticks to your temple.
He tightens his grip. He feels that you're close — he must.
"Look me in the eyes," he says. You do. As your cunt clenches hard around his dick, fluttering helplessly, you lift your head and stare into his lust-blown eyes. A few more desperate thrusts, and his brows tighten briefly, pupils dilating as he empties himself inside of you, pumping his release up into you.
A gaze you'll never forget, as long as you live. Your hand finds the nape of his neck, feeling the finer, thinner hair underneath the wig. It's soft and drenched in sweat.
Languid thrusts fade gradually, and his cock softens inside your walls, tired and spent. As he tugs it free of you and tucks it back into his trousers, he reaches into his pocket, retrieving an embroidered handkerchief and hands it to you.
His eyes scan your face. "Ohhh, I've made a horrible mess of you."
You reach up to your face with a shaky hand and feel the sticky paint that's smeared over your flesh. You hurriedly take the square of cotton and begin rubbing at your cheeks and mouth, hoping to remove as much of it as you can before you return to Marguerite — saving yourself from humiliation. Once your cheeks are red with stimulation, you hand the soiled handkerchief back to him.
You aren't sure what to say.
Neither is he, even though words are hammering against his closed lips.
"Papa?" A small voice calls from behind one of the tents. It grows closer, and your muscles tighten in fear.
"I should go," you whisper. He nods.
You rearrange yourself, smoothing out your dress before throwing him one final look. Part of you wants to ask to see him again, but you don't.
He seems to know what you were going to ask anyway.
He smiles. Nods again. Tucks the handkerchief in his pocket again.
"Papa?" The voice is even closer now. You hear tiny little footsteps approaching.
You pick up your skirts and hurry off towards the stage, where hopefully Marguerite is still waiting.
Even though you can feel his gaze on you, you don't look back.
